


Classifieds

by Tierfal



Series: Whippersnapper [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Crack, Fluff, Hilarity Ensues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al is kind of a stalker; Alfons is kind of in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classifieds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phindus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Phindus).



> This is all the fault of Phindus's [completely](http://phindus.tumblr.com/post/61628771193/its-modern-au-time-with-lets-draw-fma-au-where) [flawless](http://phindus.tumblr.com/post/62011730139/more-modern-au-elrics-mostly-scribbled-down) modern-day AU. I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. I FOUGHT BRAVELY, BUT I _JUST COULDN'T HELP IT_.
> 
> ilu, Phindus; I hope it makes you smile. ^^; Also, I can't believe I didn't write anything about Ed. Still trying to get a handle on him and his mind-bogglingly adorbzorz outfit. ~~So maybe there will be more? idek~~~~~~
> 
> tl;dr it starts with Phindus's fantastic art and just gets crazier from there. XD

  


art by the incredible Phindus, originally posted [here](http://phindus.tumblr.com/post/61633053359/i-hear-you-on-all-the-modern-au-ships-but-i)  


Minor setback.  Al has a thousand other cheesy pickup lines where that came from; what _else_ are late-night nineties sitcom reruns for?

“Right,” he says.  “So… what’s your sign?”

Perfect-Sexy-Newspaper-Reader-Man stares at him for a moment, and then his perfect-sexy lips part for a single word: “‘Stop’.”

 _Well_.  Two can play at _that_ game.

“How about ‘Yield’?” Al asks.  “Or ‘Speed Humps Ahead’?”

Perfect-Sexy-Newspaper-Reader-Man (Al really needs to start abbreviating that in his head) goes slightly slack-jawed and wide-eyed for a moment, and then he clears his throat and frowns.

“Exactly how old are you?” he asks.

“Eighteen,” Al says.

The perfect-sexy-newspaper-reading eyes narrow.  They’re so lovely.  Like little shards of obsidian—Al would gladly cut himself open on their edges.  He just wants to see the _lava_ , that’s all.

“All right,” Al says.  “Seventeen and a half.”

Now they’re slits of midnight.  _Oh_ , Al’s heart is singing paeans to the dark.

“All _right_ ,” he says.  “I turned fifteen in August.  But I’m _very_ mature for my age.”

“Are you,” Perfect-Sexy says, and it’s not even in the extended family of a question.  “I imagine you must have several more newspapers to deliver before school starts.”

“Oh, no,” Al says.  “This is the last one.”  He dragged himself out of bed at four-thirty and raced through his route to make sure of it.  Perfect-Sexy always comes out to get the paper—robe undone, hair rumpled, coffee mug in hand—between ten and thirteen minutes after six.

Perfect-Sexy appears to be attempting to read Al’s poker face instead of the newspaper.  Fortunately, Al discovered at an early age that his puppy eyes could charm water from a stone, money from a miser, and chocolate from Ed—the latter being perhaps the most miraculous. He’s been honing his God-given talent ever since.

“So,” Al says as Perfect-Sexy squints at him, perfectly and sexily. “What’s your favorite section of the paper?”

Perfect-Sexy pauses, presumably waiting for Al to turn that into an innuendo. When nothing comes (ha!), he says slowly, “Lately it’s the crime report. Over the weekend a local gentleman was arrested for public drunkenness after staggering around downtown, declaring his love to a telephone pole.”

Al would happily declare _his_ love to a certain p… oops, that’s raunchy.

“I prefer the personals,” Al says.

“Color me surprised,” Perfect-Sexy says in a perfect, sexy deadpan.

“May I use bodypaint?” Al says. “That’s very forward of you to suggest. I like it. What was your name, again?”

“There is no ‘again’ when I haven’t told you for a reason,” Perfect-Sexy says. “I think this conversation is officially illegal now, and as such I’m going to bow out of it immediately.”

“Have a nice day!” Al calls as Perfect-Sexy books it back towards the house with newspaper in hand. “See you tomorrow!”

He very distinctly hears Perfect-Sexy mutter “ _Fuck_.”

 

 

Alfons gets really anxious standing around in the alley at the back of Whippersnapper (formerly CageBox, formerly Rhythm & Loose, formerly DE(A)FEND). Probably it should feel deep, and the mild danger should be sort of stimulating, but mostly he loiters aimlessly and thinks about serial killers, and his skin starts to crawl.

Footsteps inside—he _definitely_ doesn’t start at those, definitely doesn’t almost drop his only-one-drag-gone cigarette to the questionably damp pavement, definitely doesn’t brace himself as the door creaks—and then a strip of light slices across the cracked cement.

“Hey, babe,” Miles says.

That actually doesn’t help his careening heart too much, because Miles still sort of makes him giddy. Like, all the time.

“Hey,” he says, powerless against the blood rushing to his cheeks.

 _Technically_ , this is a fire exit, so _technically_ it’s probably illegal to prop it open with an old, broken barstool, but because Miles is in a band (in a _band_! a band that gets _gigs_! a band that doesn’t even _suck_!), in practice he can kind of do whatever the hell he wants.

Recently, what he wants is Alfons.

God, is that _ever_ going to get old? Alfons can’t believe there’s any cartilage left in his knees the way they start to liquefy when Miles runs those big, strong, musically-talented fingers over his face.

This can’t be right. Nothing good ever happens to Alfons; nothing _this_ good ever happens to _anybody_ —

“You want—?” he asks, offering the cigarette. One of these days Miles is just going to wake up and realize that Alfons is a poser, and that Alfons is pathetic and self-deprecating and needy and tragic and better left alone to his closet full of striped shirts and LPs, and that Alfons’s spit is gross.

“Jesus,” Miles says, smile weary but warm and just—just _nice_. “Thank you.” He takes Alfons’s wrist so _gently_ and leans in for a long drag. “You’d think Olivier’s going to war out there or something.”

  


more amazing Phindus art, originally posted [here](http://phindus.tumblr.com/post/61667435240/todays-warm-up-sketch-is-brought-to-you-by)  


“She’s kind of psycho,” Alfons says.

“Understatement of the new millennium,” Miles says.

Alfons grins. He can’t help it. “Is it still new, though?”

“You make it feel new,” Miles says.

Shit. Now Alfons has this gloppy, drippy, sappy muck-thing where his heart used to be.

“You shouldn’t’ve waited,” Miles says, shifting to run one of those way-too-amazing hands lightly up Alfons’s arm. “I swear, that was the set that wouldn’t _end_. You sure you’re gonna be okay getting home?”

“I wanted to see you,” Alfons says. “And my car’s just down the street. It’s all good.”

It _is_ all good. Alfons keeps waiting for the other scuffed-up combat boot to fall.

Miles’s lips brush across his forehead. Apparently it was a mistake to adopt uncompromising atheism at the tender age of nine, because Alfons has clearly died, and there’s a heaven after all.

“So what’s new in the life of Heiderich?” Miles asks, fingers making frets of Alfons’s vertebrae. Yeah, that’s definitely better than anything found on Earth.

Alfons tries very hard to think of something other than how much he wants to jump Miles in a dark and highly unsanitary alleyway. “Al is stalking some guy on his paper route.”

“‘I’m-unnervingly-interested-in-a-stranger’s-habits’-stalking?” Miles asks. “Or ‘I-broke-into-the-love-of-my-life’s-house-and-painted-our-initials-in-a-heart-on-the-wall’-stalking?”

“So far it’s the first one,” Alfons says. “But… Elric.”

“Elric,” Miles agrees, nodding sagely.

“Family motto: _Anything worth doing is worth overdoing_.”

“Family crest: rabid lion cub rampant.”

“Family seal: crest set in a vortex of obsessive doom.”

Miles’s laugh might be the highlight of humanity. “You’re making me want to get drunk and watch _Game of Thrones_ again this weekend.”

“If I ever say no to that,” Alfons says, “you’ll know that the aliens have replaced me with a detailed replica.”

Miles’s arm snakes around Alfons’s waist, and his breath is warm and wet against Alfons’s jaw. “I’ll kick their asses and make ’em give you back.”

“My hero,” Alfons says, and then Miles is kissing his throat, and the part of his brain responsible for saying things shorts out completely.


End file.
